


All The Lonely People (Where Do They All Belong?)

by telperion_15



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Angst, Epistolary, First Kiss, Friendship, Gift Fic, Loneliness, M/M, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telperion_15/pseuds/telperion_15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James is friends with everybody, Michael included.  But when James reveals how he really feels about those friendships, Michael becomes determined to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Lonely People (Where Do They All Belong?)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/gifts).



> Birthday fic for the very lovely luninosity! :)
> 
> Small liberties taken with various filming schedules...

Everyone likes James. And the feeling would appear to be entirely mutual, as James likes everyone back.

James remembers the names of all the wardrobe girls, all the runners, every member of the lighting crew, and every single person in the catering department. James will instantly give up the best seat in the makeup trailer so one of the team has better light to work on Nicholas’ prosthetic, and will cheerfully wait through any number of delays resulting from script changes, technical faults or the plain, old-fashioned weather without blaming anyone.

James even likes _Michael_ , which somehow never ceases to be amazing.

Not that Michael considers himself to be inherently unlikeable. It’s just that maybe he’s a little bit un _approachable_. He knows he can be a bit intense, and isn’t exactly the most welcoming person on the planet. He’s even heard more than one crewmember muttering about his ‘shark-like’ smile, as if he’s about to eat anyone he grins at.

But James had approached him right away. Had included him in that all-encompassing friendliness, and has apparently never regretted it.

Michael could tell himself that of course James would have to be friendly towards him. They’re the two leads in this film, after all, and the number of scenes they have together verges on the ridiculous sometimes. They have to get on well, and they have to be in tune, in order to portray Charles and Erik’s relationship correctly.

But somehow he knows that James isn’t being friendly because he has to. He’s being friendly because he _wants_ to. Because James is incapable of _not_ being friendly.

And, he quickly finds, Michael really has no choice other than to be friendly back.

*~*~*~*~*

Michael scans the crowd, narrows his eyes when he doesn’t immediately spot James, and looks again. It’s not impossible that James _is_ in here somewhere – almost the entire cast and crew has turned up for the wrap party, and James is shorter than most of them. He could easily be hiding behind Kevin or Jason or Lucas, or sheltering in a gaggle of admiring people, all hanging on to his every word and laughing at his every joke.

But a second sweep of the room confirms that in fact James is nowhere to be found, and Michael feels a vague stirring of worry. James _should_ be here, and he isn’t. _Why_ he isn’t, Michael can’t fathom. James has been the life and soul of the film for so many weeks, and it isn’t right that he shouldn’t in the middle of a party that he is practically the guest of honour at, no matter his disclaimers when Jennifer had tried to convince him of that fact.

“Hey, Rose.” Michael stops her as she goes by. “Have you seen James?”

Rose frowns. “Actually, I haven’t, not for at least ten minutes,” she replies, looking simultaneously puzzled and startled that she hadn’t noticed James’ absence until now. “I wonder where he is? Do you want me to check with the others?”

“No, don’t bother them. I’ll find him,” Michael promises, more to himself than Rose. “He’s probably just out getting some fresh air or something.”

“It _is_ a little stuffy in here,” Rose agrees, but Michael can see the same concern in her eyes that he knows must be visible in his own, and he once again reflects on just how many friends James has made on this project.

He leaves Rose, not completely convinced that she isn’t going to raise some kind of alarm, and makes his way outside to the terrace, following his own suggestion. It’s as good a place to start as any.

A sharp breeze catches at his clothes and hair as soon as he steps outside, and he pulls his jacket a little more closely around himself. This might be LA, but it’s still December, and even California has been known to experience its cooler days.

It’s certainly not warm enough to stay out here for any length of time, and that thought makes Michael’s glance around the terrace more cursory than it should be, scant enough that he almost misses the figure leaning on the wall at the far end of the patio, little more than a silhouette sheltering outside the light spilling from the bar’s windows.

Michael mutters a quiet curse to himself, and makes a beeline for the figure. James shows no sign of having noticed his approach, but when Michael is standing beside him he turns his head and says, “Hi.”

Despite James’ apparently almost deliberate distance from the lighted windows, there’s still enough illumination for Michael to see that James’ smile, while genuine, is also a little strained, and little weary.

“Hi,” he says back, and then, for lack of any other ideas, “What are you doing out here?”

“Just taking a few minutes for myself,” James replies. “There are rather a lot of people in there.”

Michael frowns. There _are_ a lot of people at the party, but something about James’ response doesn’t ring quite true. James has never had a problem with a lot of people being around before. In fact, he seems to positively revel in it, never happier than when he can persuade hoards of people to come out for drinks after a day’s shooting is over, or rope the entire crew of ‘X-Men’ into playing yet another prank on Matthew (Michael had resisted at first, but in the end had somehow found himself going along with James’ mad schemes. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the day when James had regarded him like a proud parent when Michael himself had come up with the idea of having every recite a dirty limerick every time Matthew yelled “Action!”).

Still, even if he’s not revealing the real reason, it’s clear that James _does_ want to be alone, and that Michael is intruding. It hurts in a strange way to do it, but he makes himself take a step back, determined not to disturb James any longer.

“Wait.” James suddenly sounds surprised, honestly so, that Michael is leaving so quickly. “Don’t go.”

Michael halts, confused. “I thought you wanted to be by yourself?”

“I do. I mean…I don’t. I mean…oh, never mind. I‘d just rather you didn’t go. If that’s okay?”

“Of course it is.” Michael moves closer again, and settles himself against the wall beside James. For a few moments neither of them say anything, Michael because he can’t think _what_ to say, and James because he doesn’t seem to want to talk, despite requesting that Michael remain.

Then James sighs, and observes, “It’s gone by fast, hasn’t it?”

“What has?”

“This.” James waves his hand vaguely in the air. “The shoot. I swear, it was only a couple of weeks ago that we were all sitting down for the first read-through.”

“I suppose it has, yes,” Michael says, surprised to find himself meaning it. He doesn’t normally notice how fast or slow a shoot goes – he wraps himself up in the work either way and just keeps going until the final shot.

But now he realises that this shoot does feel like it’s done and dusted quicker than normal – and that he regrets that fact. He suddenly wishes that this wasn’t the wrap party, and that they were all coming back after Christmas to carry on.

Not that that’s possible, of course. Quite apart from the fact there’s nothing left to shoot here, many members of the cast will be going on to new projects almost immediately. Michael himself will be jetting off again on January 3rd, barely giving the New Year time to get going before he’s diving into another role.

And James will be… Michael frowns again as he realises he doesn’t know what James’ next film is. James hasn’t mentioned it.

“So, what’s next on the cards for you, then?” he asks, deciding to rectify his lack of knowledge.

James huffs something that could be a laugh. “Well, Christmas first, obviously,” he says. “The obligatory family get-together. But after that…well, actually I’m having a bit of a break. Catch my breath, that kind of thing.”

“Oh.” Michael can’t remember the last time he took a break. Or, at least, one that wasn’t forced on him by public holidays or family commitments. He likes to work.

“I suppose that’s why I’m _really_ out here,” James continues. “Trying to get a head start.”

“A head start on what?”

“Being on my own again,” James says. “Might as well begin getting used to it as soon as possible.”

“On your own?” Michael thinks back over the past few months, convinced that he’s never _seen_ James on his own. James always has someone else with him, even if it’s only Michael himself. “I don’t think you could be on your own if you tried.”

“My empty flat might have something to say about that,” James replies wryly. “There’s certainly no one else _there_.”

“No one waiting for you, then?” Michael asks, even as he realises he’s never heard James mention a significant other either – at least, not a current one.

“Nope.” James huffs again, the noise that Michael suddenly thinks might _not_ be a laugh. “There never is.”

“James…”

“It’s hard, you know?” James speaks over him. “What we do. We meet so many people in this job. We even make friends with them. But then the shoot’s over and we all go our separate ways.”

“But we keep in touch with some of those people,” Michael protests, even though he’s aware he’s not the best example for his argument. He could probably count on his fingers the number of people he still regularly keeps in contact with from his previous projects. And he suspects that his definition of ‘regularly’ might be a little different to anyone else’s.

But James…James must be in touch with loads of people. How could he not be? Michael’s never seen anyone who makes friends so easily, _and_ genuinely means it every single time.

“I’m not saying we don’t,” James says. “But an email every six months, or a text message when someone’s got a spare minute isn’t the basis for any kind of deep and meaningful friendship. We’re all too busy for anything more, I get that, and I love my work, I do. But it does rather prevent us _really_ getting to know anyone. And sometimes I think it would be nice to go home and find someone waiting there to welcome me back. Someone who I’ve known for more than a few weeks or months. Someone who knows _me_.”

James sounds so sad that it’s all Michael can do to stop himself reaching out, even though he knows he’s not terribly good at the comforting thing. There’s another moment of silence, and then James laughs, a little bitterly, at himself and straightens up.

“Well, that’s enough of my maudlin self-pity,” he says. “Obviously I’ve had too much to drink. Sorry for bringing you down.”

“You haven’t,” replies Michael, somewhat untruthfully, although he doesn’t really mind. He had no idea that James felt like this.

“Anyway, we should get back inside,” James continues. “It is a party, after all, and we shouldn’t be missing out on the opportunity to have fun.”

He pushes himself away from the wall, and makes his way back towards the light and laughter and warmth of the party. Michael stares after him for a moment, and then follows.

*~*~*~*~*

To: jamesmcavoy@hotmail.co.uk  
From: MFass@gmail.com  
Date: 10th January 2011  
Time: 21:44 (local)  
Subject: Hi

_Hi James,_

_Just thought I’d drop you a line to say Happy New Year and see how Christmas and the obligatory family get-together went. I hope it was nice, although if you’re anything like me, you’re probably relieved all the enforced festivity is over. Then again, I’m well aware you’re_ nothing _like me, so I know you enjoyed all of it._

_I’m in New York already, working on the new film like I told you I would be. It’s only a week in, but I can already tell it’s going to be a tough one. But I think it’s going to be something special too. Hopefully, anyway._

_But I won’t bore you with the details (although if you were here I know you’d be able to make a hundred hilarious stories out of me having to take my kit off at every given opportunity). Let me know what’s going on with you, and maybe give me a call if you can stand to hear the sound of my voice again?_

_Michael_

*~*~*~*~*

_“Hello?”_

“James?”

_“Yes?”_

“It’s Michael.”

_“Michael?”_

“There’s no need to sound so surprised. I said I’d call, didn’t I?”

_“Yes, but…oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter.”_

“You’re not busy, are you? I can call back another time.”

_“No! I mean, no, I’m not busy. Just having a quiet night in. It’s great to hear from you.”_

“You still sound surprised. You did get my last email, didn’t you?”

_“Yes, but it was only a couple of days ago, and I didn’t think…look, just forget it. I’m talking crap, ignore me.”_

“…”

_“Michael?”_

“Sorry, yes, still here. How are you, anyway?”

_“Not bad.”_

“What are you up to?”

_“Not much at the moment. But, oh yes, I signed the contract today for that job I mentioned before.”_

“The voice job? On the Christmas animation?”

_“That’s the one. It’s turned out to be a really good script, and they’ve got a good cast for it – Jim Broadbent, Bill Nighy, a few others. I mean, it should be fun…”_

“You don’t have to defend your choices to me, James. And just think, you can turn up looking however you want, without having to endure hours in a makeup chair.”

_“Do I detect a hint of wistfulness?”_

“You try sitting around having your roots re-bleached every week and see how you like it.”

_“No thanks. Although I am now imagining you as a blond. I’m not sure it suits you.”_

“I can’t wait to be rid of it, if I’m honest. But I suppose we all have to suffer for our art.”

_“Poor baby.”_

“Oh, shut up. When does recording start, anyway? So I know exactly when to start being jealous of you.”

_“Middle of April. And it’s not all an easy ride. Getting into the festive spirit in spring is going to be interesting. I’ve only just got out of it!”_

“Point taken. You’re going be done by the time our press junket starts though, aren’t you?”

_“Oh, definitely.. The whole thing’ll only take a couple of weeks, I should think.”_

“Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

_“Me too, I suppose.”_

“I’m looking forward to seeing _you_.”

_“Oh…yes…me too. Looking forward to seeing you…”_

“Thanks.”

_“So, come on then, tell me more about playing an android. And a blond one at that. And what’s it like working with Ridley Scott? I hear it’s a once in a lifetime experience…”_

*~*~*~*~*

**i’m going to murder hugh laurie if he plays jingle bells at me one more time**

**I can see the headlines now: ACTOR FOUND DEAD, VICTIM OF CHRISTMAS HOMICIDE. FELLOW CAST MEMBER SUSPECTED OF JINGLING HIM ALL THE WAY.**

**James?**

**James, are you there? Come on, you know my jokes are always crap…**

**sorry, sorry, was just burying the body… ;)**

**Very funny.**

**actually, I’ve programmed hugh’s phone to play ‘all I want for christmas is you’ every time his agent calls. genius, huh?**

**You’re a criminal mastermind…**

**oh, shut up, or i’ll jingle YOU all the way!**

**Oh, now I’m really scared…**

**You should be!**

*~*~*~*~*

To: MFass@gmail.com   
From: jamesmcavoy@hotmail.co.uk  
Date: 2nd May 2011  
Time: 19:31 (local)  
Subject: Re: Re: Hi

_Hey Michael,_

_Haven’t heard from you in a couple of weeks, so I guess the duties of an android must be keeping you busy. Either that or you’re in a coma from having breathed in too many peroxide fumes._

_Anyway, it’s my last day of recording the day after tomorrow (no more Christmas for at least six months, hurrah!), and then I’m flying back to the UK the day after that for a couple of weeks before our press stuff (wish I didn’t have to suffer through the night flight, but I can’t help that – still at least I’ll be back in time for breakfast). I could stay out here, I suppose, but it would be nice to be at home while I’m just hanging around._

_It feels like ages since we were filming together, doesn’t it? Sometimes I can’t believe it’s only been a few months, and sometimes it feels as if it was another lifetime ago._

_Let me know that you’re not a victim of death by hair bleach if you have a minute, otherwise I’ll see you on the 18th. Can’t wait :)_

_James_

Michael stares at the words on the screen in front of him, does some rapid calculations in his head, and then swears aloud when he realises it’s been _at least_ two weeks since he’s last been in touch with James. James isn’t even wrong about the reason for it – knowing that Michael had to take a break from filming to accommodate the press for _First Class_ , a lot of scenes on _Prometheus_ have been packed into a short space of time, to try and get as many done as possible before he leaves.

That isn’t an excuse, however, and Michael curses again as he re-reads James’ email, the subtext all too apparent. James might prefer to be at home while he has nothing to do, but he’ll still be _alone_.

_“And sometimes I think it would be nice to go home and find someone waiting there to welcome me back. Someone who I’ve known for more than a few weeks or months. Someone who knows_ me _.”_

James’ words from the last time they’d actually seen each other come vividly to mind, and Michael knows what he has to do.

*~*~*~*~*

He knows where James lives, courtesy of an impromptu weekend party after the filming of the mansion scenes on _First Class_ was finished. Engelfield isn’t that far from London, and James had invited all of the ‘X-Men’ back to his place at the end of the shooting block to celebrate a job well done.

With the benefit of hindsight, of course, Michael can recognise that it had been more than that, James trying to preserve the sense of camaraderie between them all for a little bit longer before they all split up to film separate sequences, not wanting to relinquish their company just yet.

He knows he couldn’t possibly have worked out what was going on in James’ head back then, but it doesn’t stop him from blaming himself anyway, just a little, for not seeing it.

Still, at least the event has left him with the legacy of James’ address, and that, along with all his powers of persuasion and a little bit of luck (the former exerted on Ridley with regards to the shooting schedule, and the latter providing him with some ammunition relating to set repairs) is all he needs to put his plan into action.

So four days after James’ email, Michael finds himself on a quiet, leafy street in north London, with dawn only just breaking as he stares up at the old Victorian house he knows belongs to James, hoping that any early risers peering out of their windows don’t think he’s casing the joint.

There are a lot of flights from LA to London every day, some direct and some not, but all of them overnight, thanks to the distance. The only clue Michael has to which one James will be on is the reference to being home ‘in time for breakfast’, and so he’s arrived before it’s even really light, determined not to fail by being too late.

It might be May, but there’s still a chill in the air this early in the day, and Michael’s grateful for the sweater he’s thrown on under his leather jacket. However, right now he doesn’t really care if he gets cold or not – some things are more important.

Gently, he pushes open the front gate, trying to keep it from creaking too loudly, and quietly makes his way up the front path. There are a couple of steps leading up to the front door, which is recessed into the back of a small porch. Michael’s under no illusions that the steps will be comfortable, but at least they make a convenient place for him to perch himself, and the porch will protect him if it starts to rain. Not that that seems likely, given that it’s clear enough that he can still see a few stars in the gradually lightening sky.

Michael cranes his head to look up at the house once more, and then sits down on the top step and settles himself for a bit of a wait.

Time passes, and he feels himself drifting. He doesn’t fall asleep, not exactly, despite the earliness of the hour, but his awareness of the world around him fades a little as dawn proceeds towards full day.

One or two people pass the house – a woman out walking her dog, and a young lad delivering papers before school – but it’s as if they are slightly removed from him. Michael doesn’t know if either of them see him, but certainly neither of them acknowledge his presence. Only the dog seems to want to take a closer look at him, but its owner tugs at its lead, and its interest wanes quickly enough.

It’s not until the glow behind the rooftops of the houses on the other side of the street indicate that the sun has properly risen – albeit not high enough to flood this particular street with light just yet – that a taxi draws up in front of the house. A car door slams, a Scottish accent proclaims, “Cheers, mate,” and before Michael can really rouse himself James is standing over him, staring down at him in astonishment.

“Michael? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Michael replies, truthful but not that eloquent as he gradually surfaces from his almost-stupor.

“I can see that. But why? Oh well, never mind that for the moment.” James waves his question away, although Michael is under no illusions that they won’t be returning to it later. “I wasn’t expecting to have to entertain as soon as I got back, but you’d better come in.”

He steps around Michael to get to the front door, and with a groan Michael levers himself to his feel, trying to shake out the cold that has seeped into all his muscles while he’s been waiting. James notices, and an eyebrow goes up, but he remains silent as he gets the door unlocked and leads the way into the dim hallway.

James’ house is a space that Michael remembers as being filled with light and warmth and laughter, but it seems strangely desolate right now. He reminds himself that James has been away – it’s only natural for the place to feel empty. But suddenly he can’t bear the idea of James rattling around in here by himself.

“You’d better go through,” James says, swinging his carryall off his shoulder and dropping it to the floor by the stairs.

Michael finds his eyes drawn to it as it sags to the floor, somehow pathetic, and he can’t stop himself from blurting out, “Is that all your luggage?”

James gives him another surprised look. “Yes. I was only gone for a few weeks and I don’t need much. I bought anything else I needed out there, and left some bits and bobs that I didn’t need behind.”

It seems wrong, that James should be able to fit everything he needs to live his life into one small bag, but Michael doesn’t know how to explain that to James, so when James gestures again in the direction of where Michael knows the living room to be, he goes obediently, nodding to James’ offer of coffee.

“It’ll probably only be instant,” James calls out from the kitchen. “I haven’t been shopping recently, as you’re probably well aware.”

“It’s fine,” Michael calls back, his voice a little hoarse, and he clears his throat even as he grimaces to himself over the inanity of discussing instant coffee. This isn’t how he imagined things going, but now James is actually here, he’s not sure what to do or say. James gave him a glimpse, once, of what he was really feeling, but right here, right now, he’s hiding those feelings again, very well, and suddenly Michael’s not sure whether he has the right to be here. Whether he has the right to bring it up again, and remind James of what he’s so obviously trying not to dwell on.

“Here you go.” James thrusts a mug of coffee under his nose, startling him a little, and then sits down next to him. There’s a moment of quiet as they both sip their coffee, and it’s a cliché to say it revives him, but Michael nonetheless feels himself sharpening. Or perhaps, more accurately, it’s the world that sharpens, as everything, including James, comes into greater focus.

James allows him that for another moment, and then observes, (I knew being blond wouldn’t suit you.”

Michael raises a subconscious hand to his hair, and replies, “Yes, well, as soon as filming is over, and the roots have grown out enough that I won’t be bald, I’m cutting it all off.”

“Won’t stop there being evidence of it preserved on celluloid for ever more.”

“I know.” This still isn’t the conversation Michael wants to be having, but at least it’s more like their banter of old, the kind of thing that James had patiently teased out of him during those first few weeks on _First Class_ , until it had almost felt like second nature.

Then James asks, with his customary straightforwardness, “So, what _are_ you doing here?”

Michael covers for a moment by taking another mouthful of coffee, and then decides that nothing else is going to explain his presence here at this ridiculous hour other than the truth.

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” he says simply.

James’ eyes widen, and Michael can tell he’s remembering that night at the wrap party, and the things he’d said. “I don’t need you feeling sorry for me,” he retorts then, sounding as if he’s regretting ever letting Michael into his confidence.

“I don’t! I’m not,” Michael exclaims. “I just…didn’t want you to be alone,” he repeats. “You shouldn’t have to _be_ alone. You of all people don’t deserve that.”

“What do you mean, me of all people?”

“James!” He sounds like he genuinely doesn’t know, and for a second Michael wants to shake him, to make him _see_. “You want to be friends with everybody. You want to _help_ everybody. You spend all your time trying to make everyone happy, and I suppose…” The truth dawns on Michael like the proverbial anvil dropping from the sky. “I suppose _I_ just wanted to make you happy for a change. _I_ wanted to be here for _you_.”

“Oh,” says James again, wonderingly.

“I missed you,” Michael continues, unable to stop the flow of words now that he’s finally, suddenly, worked out what he really wants. “Emails and phone calls and text messages aren’t enough, no matter how many of them there are. I wanted to _see_ you.”

“You would have seen me in a couple of weeks anyway,” James points out.

“Not soon enough. It’s taken me too long to cotton on as it is.”

“So it’s more than just not wanting me to be all on my lonesome?” James clarifies, something that might be a smile playing around his mouth. “It had to be _you_ who came here for me.”

“ _I’m_ here, aren’t I?”

“And for reasons other than feeling sorry for me?”

“James,” Michael says, shifting a little closer and picking up one of James’ hands in his own, terrified though he is, “I just want to be here, with you. _Now_.” He shakes his head at himself. “I should have been here long before.”

“You were working, so I’m not going to hold it against you,” James says. He leans down to place his coffee mug on the floor, and then sets his free hand over their clasped ones. “I am glad you’re here now, though.”

“Are you?” Michael asks, suddenly aware that he’s just poured at least some of his heart out with no real idea how James feels about the whole situation.

“Of course I am! I don’t mind telling you that when you sent that first email back in January I might have been a bit too happy about it. But I didn’t let myself get my hopes up then, as it might have been the only one. Like I said before, the odd email doesn’t really mean a lot. And even when you proved it was going to be more than that, I still…well, you only seemed to want to be friends.”

“I didn’t know _what_ I wanted.”

“And now you do.”

“And now I do.”

James laughs. “I still can’t quite believe you were waiting for me on my front doorstep, though,” he says. “Were you really going to wait for me all day?”

“If I had to.” Michael grins. “Although I am quite glad you arrived when you did. The step was already starting to get a bit uncomfortable, and I’d forgotten to bring any breakfast!”

Another laugh. “Well, I think I can probably help out there,” James says. “I might be running a bit low on supplies, but I can probably find some bagels, or bread for toast, in the freezer. There might even be some cereal in a cupboard – oh, wait, no milk…”

“Toast will be fine,” Michael replies. “Or maybe…did I spot a café on the corner as I arrived? Will it be open for breakfast?”

“I expect so.”

“Then why don’t I treat you? As a welcome home?”

“You’re enough of a welcome,” James says, and then, before Michael can respond, leans in and kisses him.

It’s chaste – nothing more than a peck, really – and only catches the corner of Michael’s mouth. But Michael finds he likes the way James blushes and looks down afterwards. He takes a moment to savour the sight, and then frees one of his hands and uses it to tilt James’ head up again, holding his eye deliberately for a moment before leaning in himself and brushing his lips against James’, lightly at first, and then with more intent.

He discovers he also likes the way James’ breath hitches at the increased contact, a noise that deepens into something on the cusp of a moan when Michael’s hand slides along James’ jaw and round to the nape of his neck, his fingers tangling in the silky strands of James’ hair.

Of course, it’s at that exact moment that his stomach rumbles, loudly, demanding the breakfast that they’d been discussing moments before. They break apart and stare at each other before James collapses into laughter, resting his forehead on Michael’s shoulder as he shakes with it.

“I can see where your priorities lie,” he observes between gasps, as Michael tries not to disappear amongst the sofa cushions in embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry, James.”

However, James waves the words away. “It’s fine. I sympathise, actually. They did give us something on the plane, but it seems like hours ago now, and it wasn’t very appetising, as you can probably imagine. I wouldn’t be surprised if my stomach starts up a symphony with yours in a moment.”

“In that case, then,” Michael says, getting to his feet and pulling James after him, “it’s definitely time for breakfast. On me,” he finishes firmly, as James looks set to protest.

“Okay,” James concedes instead. “But next time it’ll be my turn.”

“Deal. Come on, then.”

“Wait.” James’ hand is still gripped in Michael’s, and he uses that to stop Michael moving away.

“What is it?”

The smile that crosses James face is a little tremulous, although the sparkle in his eye and the remaining flush on his cheeks reassure Michael that there can’t be anything _too_ wrong.

“I just wanted to say…thank you. For being here. I know it can’t happen every time I come home – our jobs and our lives won’t allow for that – but right now it means a lot to me.”

“James, you know I’d be here every time if I could.”

“I know. And the fact that you want that is enough for me, believe it or not. It’s much more than I’ve had in quite a while, after all.”

“James…”

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to get all melancholy. You’re here now, and that’s what matters. This is pretty much everything I ever wanted.”

Michael can’t resist pulling James close again after that, just for moment. Close enough to breath in his scent, close run his hands across the travel-crumpled fabric of his clothing, and close enough to whisper three quiet words in his ear.

“Welcome home, James.”


End file.
